He's My Friend
by sherlawkcrack
Summary: John is pretty confident in saying that he is Sherlock's friend, but is he really that important to the detective?


_You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends._

John ignored the voice in his head that was Sally Donovan's words and one of the first things she had said to him, refusing to acknowledge them. Sherlock had already proven himself worthy of friendship, so she could take it back, regardless of it being months from she had said it. He was not sure what had made him think of it in the first place. Again, she had interfered in one of their cases this week and it had only helped to spark John's anger because of her offensive insults as per usual.

"Don't let it get to you, John." he muttered to himself as he made his way to the self-checkouts and started scanning his items. God, he hated these things. He didn't think there could be a worst invention for shops. It was a bloody pain in the backside as far as he was concerned.

Once finally finished, however, he grabbed the bag and left the supermarket, hailing a cab outside when he reached the main road. He climbed into the back and directed the driver toward Baker Street, and as he pulled from the curb and drove, John distracted himself by staring out the window and watching as people and buildings passed by. The ride only took ten minutes and before he knew it, the cab had pulled to a stop outside 221B. John thanked the man and paid the fare before getting out and heading up the steps to his shared flat.

Letting himself through the door, John stopped in the hallway, noticing how strangely quiet it was. Maybe Sherlock had gotten a call from Lestrade, and without bothering to inform him, went off to solve the case. He had been complaining a lot lately about being bored and having no murders to solve.

Ascending the stairs, John paused when he entered the living room and spotted the detective who had made himself comfortable on the couch with four nicotine patches plastered to his forearms. His eyes snapped open when he heard the other man arrive and did not hesitate to ask a question: "Did you get them?" And by them, he meant more nicotine patches.

"Yes, but -"

"Good." Sherlock interrupted and snatched the knife he had been toying with earlier from the coffee table. He idly fiddled with it, watching closely as John disappeared into the kitchen to put the shopping away. Raising it, he then jammed the knife into the wood of the table and twisted it out of boredom, chipping the wood.

"Oi! Don't do that!" John shouted when he emerged back into the living room to detect what the noise was. "You'll ruin the table, Sherlock."

"You can get another one."

"_Me_?"

"Yes."

"You're the one who bloody - oh, forget it!" John sighed over-exaggeratedly and went back to resume storing everything away. Sherlock was a nuisance when he got bored. If it wasn't the wall, it was some sort of furniture. He never had treated it with respect. Lifting out the packet of nicotine patches from the shopping bag, he found Sherlock again and tossed them to him.

"They're the wrong ones, John!" he scowled after examining them, glaring at the packet.

"They were sold out of the ones you use."

"Sold out?!" the detective exclaimed out of annoyance and threw the patches across the room. He refused to use them. It didn't help John's mood, nor Sherlock's.

"Do you have to be such a child?" John cursed inwardly, and despite him being in the kitchen, Sherlock heard it, yet said nothing and remained silent for a good few long minutes at the least before he called out again.

"John?"

"What?"

"Come here."

Sighing, John made his way into the living room and stood his ground, arms folding instinctively across his chest. "What do you want?"

"Get my phone." Sherlock requested; he had done this so many times before and yet John always seemed to ask why. This time, he didn't, which surprised the detective.

"Get it yourself."

"Please." he stared at the man imploringly, and being the pushover he was, John rolled his eyes before walking over, knowing perfectly well that the mobile was in Sherlock's pocket where it always was. He didn't know why he was making him do this, but if it got Sherlock to shut up, he would gladly fetch his phone. Crossing the room, John delved his hand into the man's shirt pocket.

And with the perfect opportunity, before John could pull the phone out and hand it to him, the blade had already sunken into his back and halted any further movements. Blood welled from the wound as he dug it deeper, twisting the knife just as he had done with the table. John grunted and whined from the pain, his eyes finding Sherlock's piercing gaze. "They were the wrong ones." he hissed quietly, watching as bloody spittle frothed from the other's mouth.

"I don't have friends."

_You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends._ Sally's voice echoed back at him. John shook violently, nausea washing over him from the blood loss. Sherlock held him, slicing the blade as far as it could up his spine. And then it was over, and the man's limp and lifeless body lay still in the detective's embrace. He prized the blade free, relishing the metallic taste of the blood as he lapped at the knife and pulled out his phone.

The Detective Inspector answered after the fourth ring and Sherlock glanced at the body of his former-colleague when he spoke. "Lestrade, there's been a murder... Stabbed, yes. How many times? Oh, it's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count." And with that, he hung up, a bloody smirk curling up at the corners of his lips.

_One day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. _


End file.
